Oxen stare out
ankle deep in mud
catch a flaxen
burst of lux gold sax.
The procession nears:
Madame Charcot,
her Footmen,
borne by
mute lace makers.
They pass,
Waving waxen,
lit by Tilley Lamp
and near full
plumb
moon.
Here to replace
the sleeper.
Then
After that
Matins and Martini.
Misery lurks in the long grass,
armless and still,
like good gone west.
No post today
Blog and door.
Busy
being unknown by
and to the outside world.
Inside
howsoever
the world was
mad hectic:
sitting reading, eating,
staring, smiling, scowling,
snarling, sighing, tutting
spitting, speaking, saging,
mulling, musing, chuckling,
nodding, turning, snooping,
slurping, sighing, smoking,
standing, stepping, shaking…
That’s Quite Enough
words commencing
with ‘s’ for now.
Clouds over,
have a grey
smoke – good is
always too
good to last.
Glanced at this
‘…golden words
turn to dust,
war makes you
platitudinous…’
Thinks: Duckbill
Platypus.
A boring
genius
scatters wise
word seed on
stony ground.
Duck Bill sees.
Eats them quick
before the
blue parrots.
Slips back in billabong.
Polygon.
Bright green bus,
Blonde dressed black,
Sun kissed feet
‘Good morning!’
Yesterday
was pure good
sunlight all the way
today the bricks
are happy and
light hearted
I am bronzed.
Like Homer.
An hour later
the faff is on.
Sun is out,
chicks tweet
in ply fascia,
ulster hymns hum,
care will come
and relieve
Mafeking
peace and quiet
Us
ungulates are unkosher!
Just old scribes,
shrewmice, shaphams
and hairy sausages.
Rocking dassies,
silver tassies,
the pals of Hyrax,
rotund small,
agile things
Ding-a-Lings
Rabbits
scatter
helter-skelter.
Red risen sun,
Blue gun smoke
on an ill wind,
Sundays in Spring
Bag a Coney
for your honey.
Get old Tony
skin and gut it,
chop it,
jug it,
or,
quite simply,
let it stew,
like hate
and lentils.
everything
is
post…worthy
john peel mind rock
zest lime fig leaf:
See!
We quibbled,
she queried.
I squabbled, pram toys. Suck thumb
mendaciously.
Egg fried rice in best sock.
Crippling!
Enact plan
dusk time
Do-da-do-da-day…
at wadis elands
sip and natter,
hippos chew over
schedules and spreadsheets,
a baboon breaks cover
to bag a lax flamingo…
The sleepy papergirl wends
deftly shutting gates behind her,
delivers her wares:
vaporises,
sun beats flush soft
surges on verges…
more vainglorious burblings:
chattering classes
do not pay to rent
my ears with plummy guff,
hoarse hacks heckle, and snooties
snotter and guffaw.
True Sloth don’t rise.
Nine bleeps.
The leather hunters make bone soup,
dowse piss on the curing hides.
Red Lorry due at ten
Yellow lorry twelve
So, farewell Tony Benn,
wild eyed scion of socialist stuff,
that was not really a pipe,
it was surreal
like lobster telephones,
and soggy clocks.
My mate Terry always
mistook you for Dennis Skinner,
but you were thinner on top.
Anyway, he won’t make the same
Mistake again
I hope.
Grimbeau 